


Sherlock's Many Doctors

by oohtheyhavenibbles (Alethiometric), orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossover, Explicit Sexual Content, Kid Fic, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Sexual Content, Wholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:52:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethiometric/pseuds/oohtheyhavenibbles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor keeps stumbling into Sherlock's life, either with his companions or alone. He probably would have a significant effect on Sherlock, were this not a crack fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock's Many Doctors

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "Write me a Wholock involving all doctors 9 to 11, and whichever companions you like best? :D”
> 
> By Rin, Nibbles, and Summer. 
> 
> We take crack requests/prompts! You can submit one to us at: consultingcrackaddicts.tumblr.com/ask  
> We'll post it on the blog and here on Ao3. :]

**Age Ten:**

  
  
When Sherlock Holmes first met the Doctor, he was a little kid with a bit of an attitude problem (which was warranted because he was already ten times smarter than, like, 90% of the population of the world), and so he spent most of his time alone because no one fucking liked him.  
  
He was busy looking at some filthy garden shit, when he heard a noise. It sounded to him like an aeroplane that was heaving into the toilet after a heavy nights boozing, followed by going home with someone less than ideal.  
  
Pausing in his endeavors, he ran as fast as his gangly little 10 year old giraffe legs would take him, toward the sound.  Because why the fuck not? What possible harm could come to him in running towards a completely foreign sound that may or may not be dangerous? Genius my butthole, Sherlock.  
  
He ran smack dab into a giant blue box that had come out of nowhere. Who the fuck does that? Fucking idiots. Sherlock, do you even have eyes?! Obviously not. Two bizarre creatures came tumbling out to this teeny tiny box  (wait, it was giant before. Sherlock, get your size comparisons right, for fucks sake!)  
  
Okay, so, giant box, two creatures that pretty much looked like people, and a little dude without properly developed survival instincts, who thinks he’s a whole lot smarter than he is, were all standing in the hall or wherever the fuck they are idk. And by that, of course, I mean that they were actually outside.  
  
Sherlock looked at the one guy that had girl hair. He looked at his legs, then he looked at the girl haired guy’s legs.     
  
“Why do we have the same ten-year-old’s giraffe legs?” Sherlock asked (rude).  
  
“Oh, right! This must be it then, why you started calling me Giraffe legs. Makes sense. Haha! You don’t have a clue who I am!” The Doctor said, mostly to himself,  “Hello little person! I’m The Doctor, and this is my... Associate, John Riddell.” Said the girly-haired, giraffe legged guy, who was apparently a doctor.  
  
“Hello, young man.” said Riddell with a grin and a wink.  
  
The grin was like a million little stars. The smile could melt a thousand sticks of butter, which would be useful for baking. Or alternatively, like a thousand teen fangirls’ hearts. Including my own, because HOT DAMN, Rupert Graves! I mean... Riddell.  
  
But of course, Sherlock was ten and not into sexy men (yet), so he took no notice.  
  
“Well, hello. But what are you doing in my garden?” Sherlock asked in his most polite voice which wasn’t all that polite because he never listened to mummy when she was attempting to teach him manners (what a little shit).  
  
And frankly, his head fucking hurt from running into these assholes’ giant teeny tiny box. (Compromise!)  
  
“Um. Yes. Good question! We were on our way to the Renaissance, but it seems we’ve gone and got slightly lost along the way,” said the man who was the Doctor, “but that’s all fine and dandy, isn’t it Riddell, we’ve met a tiny obnoxious person, and it’s all going splendidly.”  
  
The funny man who didn’t seem anything like a medical professional rubbed his hands together and wandered off to take a look around Sherlock’s garden.  
  
“You’re boring.” Sherlock blatantly said to Riddell before scampering off after Gangly Giraffe Legs.  
  
Riddell’s face fell a bit. He was with The Doctor to see some adventure, not to be insulted by snotty brats.  
  
“Don’t mind the little sod,” came a voice from behind him, “He’s not much of a people person. He’d rather learn new things than talk to people. Obviously, Legs over there can help with his insatiable curiosity. You, on the other hand, can help me with mine.”  
  
Riddell whirled around like the heroine of a Bollywood film to face the voice. It was a young man, probably late in his teens years, and he was dashing a fuck.  
  
“Your insatiable curiosity?” answered Riddell, “You look fairly educated. What could you possibly be curious about?”  
  
“Well. You.” Replied the young man, “I think you’re a sexy beast and I want some of dat diq.” Or, you know, something that Mycroft was more likely to say when trying to get laid.  
  
(How about, I would love to get my hands on that magnificent penis of yours? Because you know Mycroft wouldn’t give a shit about formalities. He would just state it like it is, and he’s an educated son of a bitch. So he’d just leap right in and say PENIS!!!)  
  
(Writing the word penis is a lot more fun than the differential equations I am currently solving. So I’m gonna write it a few more times. Penis Penis Penis Penis Penis Penis Penis. Enjoy it, all you foxy babes. DRINK IT IN! PENIS!  <3 )  
  
“I’d quite like to get my hands on your assuredly magnificent penis” Is what Mycroft actually said.  
  
Riddell grinned that smile again, the smile that burned as bright as I imagine the last street light in the world would seem after an apocalypse,  before following Mycroft into the house.  
  
While those two sluts were hooking up, Sherlock was still following The Doctor.  
  
“Doctor, how did you get that big little police box into my back yard? Is that what made the plane noise?”  
  
“The plane noise?” asked the Doctor, looking bemused and inspecting flowers and shit, “Oh! you mean the... The, uh, ‘vwooorp vwoooorp’ noise! Right, yeah. You haven’t heard that before. It just makes that noise, that’s my ship, this is where we’ve landed, surely you figured all that out already though, eh chap?”  
  
“Uh no.” Sherlock frowned, “When you said you were a doctor, you didn’t mean a psychologist did you? Because I don’t want to see any more of those.”  
  
The Doctor swung around to look at little Sherlock.  
  
“No, of course not. Who in their right mind would trust me with the fragile psyche of a child?” He asked, “At any rate, let’s just say that I know you but you don’t know me but you will and I won’t and you’ll sort it all out eventually because you’re a right clever lad and I have complete faith in you. Where’s Riddell got to, I wonder?”  
  
The Doctor rambled as he walked, and Sherlock followed him, out the front gate and down the street. And down the next. And around the whole block. And back in the gate, The Doctor talking the whole time (because the doctor is a time travel man and knows all about SEXUAL INTERCOURSE because he’d seen Mycroft’s fat face before - more times than were necessary, to be completely honest~ Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey Motherfuckers!)  
  
“Oh my gosh!” cried Sherlock, when they had returned to the garden, and heard the loud moaning noises that were obviously related to sex).  
  
“Uhh, that’s not, it’s, uh, not, it’s nothing-” The Doctor tried to say, but was cut off by Sherlock, who promptly yelled,  
  
“Is that John fellow fucking Mycroft?!” before racing into the house and then Mycroft’s room.  
  
Where he found a certain companion balls deep in his older brother.  
  
“Sherlock, GET OUT!” cried Mycroft, legs up in the air.  
  
The Doctor dragged Sherlock out of the bedroom by his springy fairy curls (the ones on his head) (because he didn’t have the other type yet) and shut the door.  
  
“Why don’t you show me some of your experiments, hm?” He suggested, adjusting his bowtie and patting the aforementioned curls (STILL THE ONES ON HIS HEAD).  
  
“How do you know I have experiments?” Sherlock asked, rubbing his head.  
  
“I just do, come on!”  
  
  
  
  
That was the first time Sherlock Holmes met the Doctor, but far from the last. They’d looked at Sherlock’s shitty experiments and the Doctor had asked about a million personal questions which Sherlock answered as sassily as a ten year old could.  
  
(That isn’t to say he didn’t like the Doctor, he was just developing his sass muscles for later on in life, where they would be much needed and frequently exercised.) (Because let’s be real, he’s a massive bitch.)  
  
Sherlock never saw Riddell again even though he wished to super dooper bad. He regretted calling Riddell boring, cause anyone who could take Mycroft to bed was a person worth listening to - something he had planned to tell Riddell had they ever met a second time -  Riddell had balls! (Not the penis kind, the kind where someone has a lot of gumption or guts or whatever the hell it means in the use of a saying. Well... He had the penis kind too. Mycroft was very happy either way.)

  
  
**Age Fifteen:**  
  
  
Sherlock was on the sweeping lawns of his expensive-as-fuck school, busy not going to his classes and stuff, when he heard the vomiting plane noise again.  
  
What the shit? He thought to himself.  
  
Of course, being Sherlock Holmes, he knew what it was, but it still fucked him out because it sounded so whack. What even.  
  
The blue box of what-the-fuckery materialized, not far from him. He looked up, expecting to see the bow-tied giraffe-legged twat step out of it again, but instead he saw a bloke with Dumbo ears and an even bigger grin.  
  
“Where’s the Doctor?” he called out, only slightly confused (because he was Sherlock Holmes, and he didn’t do ‘properly confused’).  
  
“I am the Doctor!” said Dumbo. “Maybe not one you’ve seen before. But it is me!”  
  
His grin stretched so wide, ridiculously wide, as wide as the length of what all the roads in England would be when put end to end, and then twice as wide as that again. Sherlock looked sceptical.  
  
“Who are you?” The Doctor asked.  
  
“I’m Sherlock Holmes, obviously. We’ve met.” Said Sherlock, announcing it with an air of importance and a certain impressiveness, as if he already knew he was destined to be an extremely intelligent douche.  
  
Sherlock watched as the new-looking Doctor walked over and plonked down on the grass beside him.  
  
“Well,” said the Doctor, “I know about you, but I’ve never met you before. I think I’d remember a face that pompous. So don’t spoil anything!”  
  
“Nothing to spoil, last time you just asked me to show you my experiments and then wouldn’t shut up for the next three hours.” Said Sherlock, because he hadn’t forgotten to take his massive fucking bitch pills that morning.  
  
“Well, that sounds fun-”  
  
“It really wasn’t.”  
  
“-and were you as sassy then as you are now?” The Doctor asked with his face like gurl.  
  
“Well, I was ten, so probably not.”  
  
“Right, and how old are you now?”  
  
“Fifteen. But much older in terms of knowledge and intellect.”  
  
“So what’s changed? Why are you such an insufferable cunt?”  
  
Sherlock glared at the Doctor, who only smiled back at him.  
  
“Nothing happened, why the fuck do you care?” Sherlock asked petulantly, because let’s be real, he has been known to behave like a child.  
  
“Right. So intellectually all grown up, but you’re still very much a teenager, emotionally speaking.” Said the Doctor, sounding like a round-the-right-way-speaking Yoda.  
  
“Ab-so-pos-i-lute-ly, Giraffe Legs.” Sherlock retorted, flooding the world in smugness.  
  
“Giraffe Legs? Excuse you. I don’t have giraffe legs, braceface.” Said the Doctor, pouting a whole heap because he cannot contain nine-hundred years of sass.  
  
“Not yet, you don’t. But you did! And stupid hair!”  
  
“Wow. You’re one to talk, do you even have eyes? I can’t see them through that bush on your head.” Oh my gosh Nine, get it gurl!  
  
Sherlock threw Nine a look as cold as some sort of brainfreeze inducing iced beverage or dessert (gelato?), before huffing and being all like,  
  
“What are you even doing here? Do you have another promiscuous man for Mycroft to play ‘Government Official’ with?”  
  
The Doctor cackled, wiping away tears of mirthyness.  
  
“What does that even mean, are you on cocaine? Well, I was on my way to 1940s Afghanistan, and I somehow got landed up here, talking to your skinny behind. I won’t stop for long, I have a date.”  
  
“Ugh, a date? Girls are repulsive and sickening and also covered in disgusting germs that are somehow linked to menstruation!”  
  
“Are you kitten me right meow, Sherlock? You’re fifteen!  Isn’t that a bit of a childish view?”  
  
“No, I don’t think so, mister ears-as-large-as-the-Atlantic. I prefer myself a nice hunk of man meat.” Sherlock said, sassy as a goat on various kinds of drugs and also tequila.  
  
“Well I suppose that’s nice that you’ve found yourself.” Said the Doctor with a grin.  
  
“Found myself? I was kidding. That’s something I’ve heard Mycroft say before because he is the world’s biggest penis enthusiast.”  
  
“Oh, so you don’t want, uh... A ‘nice hunk of man meat’ then?”  
  
“No, I want... I don’t know!” Said Sherlock, on the verge of a sissy-baby tantrum because he is secretly twelve.  
  
“That’s usually how it goes at fifteen. I’m nine hundred and a bit, but I do remember what is was like to be a self-indulgent, petulant, and ridiculously pretentious little asshole.” said the Doctor, smiling as though he hadn’t just insulted a large percentage of the world’s population. (Including me, ex-CUSE YOU, Nine.)  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes around, like marbles on paper that had been dipped in paint to create some shitty artwork done by a five year old, whose parents would have to pretend it looked really nice and then put it on the fridge and look at that monstrosity every day for the next three years. Exactly like that.  
  
“Whatever.” he said, because what else was he going to say to that bullshit (which wasn’t bullshit at all)?  
  
“So, why are you such a prick?” said the Doctor.  
  
“That’s not fair! Everyone else is a prick to me first, because they’re as thick as concrete penises. They started it.” Said Sherlock, looking miserable and stuff.  
  
“I can’t imagine anyone bullying you.” The Doctor said thoughtfully (but not really because we all know Sherlock got bullied like fuck okay).  
  
“Well they do. I mean, they try to, not that they ever managed to outsmart me.” Sherlock said, his head drooping because he was sadface.  
  
“If they bully you because you’re clever, then they’re a waste of time. You’ll grow up and find people who like you for who you are and be happy as a sausage in bread and sauce, for real.” said the Doctor.  
  
“For real?” asked Sherlock, his eyes sparkling in the midday sun, as though the last diamond on earth had feelings and just discovered it wasn’t the last diamond, and intended to set out to find it’s diamond friend (Sherlock is the diamond in this equation, which sparkles extra a lot when it is happy).  
  
“For really real.” said the Doctor solemnly, because he really truly meant it and it was for really real, honestly.  
  
“Well. You seem like an honest kind of bloke,” Sherlock said, squinting at the Doctor, “”I suppose you could be right.”  
  
“I know I am. You’ll find at least one person.”  
  
“How long will it take though? I want someone now!” Sherlock said, a desperate (and, let’s be honest here, pathetic) edge to his voice.  
  
“It could be tomorrow. It could be in fifty years. Just hold onto your horses and be patient and stuff.”  
  
“I don’t have any horses.”  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
“No I don’t, I hate horses.”  
  
Sherlock, shut the fuck up.”  
  
“No one even asked you.”  
  
“Yes, you just did!”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“I didn’t even.”  
  
“Alright, well, if you’re going to be a prick, I must get going to meet my friend. Bye!” The Doctor finished, getting up (not gracefully) and heading back to the TARDIS.  
  
“You just wait!” yelled Sherlock, “You’ll come back and you’ll see that I’ve made a tonne of friends who aren’t horses or weirdos with large ears and then you’ll be impressed!”  
  
“No, I will have been right!” called the Doctor, smiling and waving as he shut the blue door.  
  
“Whatever.” said Sherlock again, wishing this new northern Doctor had stayed with him longer than ten minutes.

  
  
Only time would tell if Sherlock ever met someone who wasn’t a horse or a large-eared weirdo. Sadly, that tale is a different one than this. And yet, we move onwards in our saga of Sherlock being annoying as fuck.  
  
  
  
 **Age Nineteen**

  
  
At nineteen, Sherlock was nearly a man. At the current moment in which this story takes place, he was in the shower, touching his body - to wash it you dirty bitches! Not to sexy up on it, ugh.  
  
“Mmm, chemically artificial fruit and herb” Sherlock thought, inhaling the scent of his shampoo like crack, as he lathered up his person under the pitiful stream of water that called itself a shower.  
  
“I touch myself,” he sang as he scrubbed, “I want you to touch me, I- what the fuck are the words? I don’t know, something about masturbation and pathetic grovelling to a member of the same or opposite sex,” he finished singing then, because he obviously was shit at it, and didn’t know any more words.  
  
The pissing noise of the shower around his ears, plus the fact that he had an enormous amount of curly wet hair covering them, meant that he didn’t hear the would-be familiar sound of a retching plane.  
  
Since he didn’t hear the TARDIS arriving, he continued to sing shitty, nostalgia-inducing songs, including the following.  
  
“Don’t you (da-da da-nah!) FORGET ABOUT ME! Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t! Don’t you (da-da da-nah), FORGET ABOUT ME!  But you walk on by! When you call my na-aaaaame.” (because let’s be real, that’s a fucking swell song to sing in the shower, especially if you know the dance and can do it without slipping and hitting your head on the faucet).  
  
“SHERLOCK!”   He heard someone call his name, whaaaaat?  
  
“How coincidental.” He thought as he peered his soapy head around the hot pink shower curtain.  
  
There stood a tall, not-quite-gangly man with normal ears and stupid porcupine hair.  
  
“Doctor, I am showering, you rude motherfucker. Don’t try and tell me you landed accidentally again, I know you’re a lot smarter than you come across.”  
  
“Er, yes. Hello. I do actually land in the wrong place quite a bit. Maybe the TARDIS likes you, who knows. And actually, how did you know it was me?”  
  
“Like you said, the TARDIS.” Sherlock said, pointing past the Doctor to the big blue box that was taking up most of the goddamn room.    
  
“Ahh.” Said the Doctor, like it should have been obvious, which is should because let’s be real, that box is massive as fuck and hard to miss.  
  
“Well anyway,” he continued, “We needed to come to this town, I guess the old girl chose to have us meet up with you again. I’ve uh, got some new people with me - Rose!” He called into the TARDIS.  
  
A young, blonde woman, with an enormous smile (not as enourmous as Nine’s - much more potato wedge than endlessly wide crevice) popped her head out the door.  
  
“Hello!” she said cheerily.  
  
“Er, hello.” Said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, as he tried to surreptitiously hide his lanky not-yet-a-man body behind the hot pink plastic.  
  
“And Jack!” Said the Doctor as he entered the cramped bathroom and headed for the door, Rose in tow.  
  
“Wait, where are you going? You can’t just leave that bloody box in the way, I can’t get out of the bathroom!” Sherlock yelled after the Doctor, the shampoo on his head drying and creating a foamy looking cap, eaux.  
  
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.” Came a voice that was practically dripping with sex - the way an ice cream cone in the high heat of summer melts and dribbles all down your hands while you desperately try to lick everything up before it becomes an un-enjoyable puddle of melted fat on the pavement, but the sun is so hot that it all just runs and runs and in the end you just give in and eat what you can before it’s too late.  
  
That kind of dripping. Rampant, sexual dripping.  
  
Ahem.  
  
“Who are you?” Sherlock asked with an obnoxious air of curiosity.  
  
“Like the Doctor said, I’m Jack. Captain Jack Harkness.” Said the (clearly American) man with a wink.  
  
“And uh, are you here to see the town?” Sherlock asked lightly, fully understanding the depraved sexual innuendo behind the wink.  
  
“I’m fine with what I’m seeing right now, to be completely honest.” Said Jack, looking Sherlock up and down like he were a sculpture that was particularly erotic, and Jack was an art dealer trying to evaluate the Greek and Roman influences, while actually getting a massive erection.  
  
In any case, Sherlock was wet, and Jack was hard, and that’s how that shit kicked off.  
  
“Mind if I join you?” Jack asked, stepping out of the TARDIS and pulling the door shut behind him - it clicked as the lock fell into place.  
  
“Well, I’m not entirely certain as to-” Sherlock paused, gesticulating wildly - he was trying to remain cool, calm and collected - “I mean, I’ve heard these are the years of sexual exploration, if that is indeed what you mean, and I can make a calculated guess about the... Uh, the nature of the beast, as it were. So I say that I could only offer encouragement.” Sherlock said, rambling.  
  
Jack only smiled, before chucking his massive coat to the side, so that it landed somewhere near the toilet and hopefully not in it.  
  
“I’m always in the mindset, sunshine.” He said, like a sexual bonobo chimp with a predilection for soggy young-adults.  
  
Like fast-forwarding a strip-tease, Jack shed his clothing (while Sherlock rinsed his hair), before climbing into the shower cubicle with all the grace of a stoned chicken trying to eat a toothpick made of jelly, but it can’t hold onto the toothpick because it’s beak cuts through the jelly, and it has wings, and no hands.  
  
Jack gently (read: roughly) pushed Sherlock into the wall of the shower and held him there, while he (Jack), warmed himself up under the lackluster spray of water - although there was nothing lackluster about Jack’s erect penis, that’s for sure. It stood proud and tall, like one of those curved trees you see on tropical beaches - although not the crazy loop-the-loop ones, that would be a fucked up looking dick. It was just a nice, solid-looking upward curve of a penis. Much like a banana, but skin coloured, and without the weird hard bit at one end that connects bananas to their bunch. Jack had a different kind of bunch (between his legs, and they were filled with semen if you are getting the gist of this metaphor) (hint: his balls).  
  
The sight of Jack’s impressive ding-dong left Sherlock feeling intimidated. He was just kind of staring at it through the steam while it was lightly flecked with shower water. (Wait that’s actually kind of hot. Oops!)  
  
“Are you going to touch it or what?” said Jack, smiling.  
  
Sherlock swallowed and just kept staring because what the fuck was he meant to do with that fine dick, he didn’t know.  
  
So Jack placed his hands on Sherlock’s bony shoulders, and moved in for a kiss. Their lips met and it was a bit weird feeling because you know how water is a shitty lubricant? Their mouths just felt rubbery because water sex isn’t actually that fun, but then they got their tongues busy and were licking all up on each other’s mouths and that made it a bit better. I don’t want to paint an erotic picture here, it was sloppy as fuck.  
  
Anyway, as Sherlock was like a virgin (touched for the very first time~) he was also now sporting an erection. And he nearly came when Jack reached down and went straight for the balls.  
  
“Ohhh, my god!” He moaned in what I imagine was quite a deep voice for a nineteen year old.  
  
“Oh yeah, you like that?” Said Jack, (because who doesn’t talk like a porn star during sex, come on, get real please) (just kidding, that is an unrealistic portrayal of sex).  
  
“Um, hnng, yes, but could we slow down a bit?” Sherlock said, panting.  
  
“Well, sure.” Jack replied, moving back into eat Sherlock’s face some more - Sherlock, in a moment of vanity, was just glad his acne had cleared up.  
  
Eventually, Sherlock could contain himself long enough to start touching up on Jack’s sexy body and stuff. Oh yeah, he stroked Jack like he was stroking a head-strong alpaca that was demanding attention and affection. Except not of the sexual kind because that is bestiality okay, gross, not in this fic guys.  
  
They gently caressed each other, the smoothness of their touches aided by Sherlock’s body wash (which was mango scented, how fresh - it made the bubbles slightly orange, which was weird and not an important detail, but at least now you know, right? And knowing is half the battle), sliding hands across body planes and into hot crevices (I am talking mostly about butt cracks, but this could also apply to thighs and maybe armpits if you are into that shit, I’m not judging).  
  
Sherlock collected himself to touch Jack on the penis (dun dun dunnn), and it took quite a lot out of him. He thought he was hot shit that didn’t need this kind of gratification, but to be completely honest, Jack’s touch was heavenly. His skin felt sensitive, and he ached in his loin-y places for more, for contact, for a connection, and he knew in that moment, that he wanted to fuck Jack in his tiny shower.  
  
“Will you take me?” he asked, his expression bashful.  
  
“Uh... Where?” Jack asked, confused.  
  
“Are you fucking kitten me right meow” said Sherlock (inspired by Nine’s sass), and then Jack understood that he meant up the bum.  
  
He nodded in reply.  
  
“Yes, of course I’ll have you, if that’s what you really really want.”  
  
“Luckily for you, I don’t have any friends you have to get with.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Zig-a-zig ahhh” said Sherlock, before pulling Jack close to him and ravishing him as if one or both of them were Fabio - what a mental image.  
  
Whatever, Jack went with it, sliding one hand down to grab Sherlock by the dick, like it was the handle to a sexy human frying pan that he was about to put his cock into. And hot damn, did he ever want to scramble some eggs on that pan... If you know what I mean, and I think you do (he wanted to come on Sherlock, hahaha) (I meant balls actually BUT ALRIGHT) (Okay, he wanted to... Put his balls on Sherlock? O_O”).  
  
He pushed in close to Sherlock’s body, grinding up on him like cheese on a grater, and then bit down hard on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock moaned and stuff, mmm.  
  
They touched each other on the body some more, Sherlock exploring every part of Jack (including inside his butt), and vice versa.  
  
“Jack, I want more!” Gasped Sherlock, not sure what it was that he wanted.  
  
But of course, Captain Jack knew. He’d been fingering Sherlock for the past fifteen minutes to make sure his arse didn’t get ripped apart by a penis.  
  
“Turn around and bend over - brace yourself on the TARDIS” Jack instructed.  
  
And so Sherlock was half out of the shower, arms outstretched and pushing against the (thankfully) locked doors of the big blue box (poor girl was probably horrified... or aroused, I’m not judging).  
  
Jack knelt down ran his tongue up and down Sherlock’s buttcrack like a credit card in a card reader. Water dripped onto his head and onto Sherlock’s lower back, keeping their hot bodies moist and reading for fucking (or something, idk I’ve never had sex in a shower) (Or anywhere else, actually) (unless you count an all-female threesome which I don’t) (wait what). So anyway, then he put his fingers back in Sherlock’s butt and moved them around in a way that would be considered realistic in terms of anal sex, for the exact right amount of time that Sherlock needed, before he lined his creepy banana dick up with the anus that was slightly open-looking before him.  
  
“This might be a bit tight there buddy, so just hold on.” Jack said.  
  
“I can take it.” Said Sherlock.  
  
“Well, I hope so, as now that the TARDIS is locked I can’t squeeze between the open door and the edge of the shower to get out and go buy lube. So we’re kind of trapped here with what we’ve got. And I doubt you have any lubricant lying around.”  
  
“Err, I have body wash?” Sherlock said.  
  
“I’m not putting that in your ass, idiot.” Jack said, before giving Sherlock a spank and preparing to ease into his butthole.  
  
“Oh yeah” said Sherlock, as his sphincters were breached (or something slightly more convincing, I don’t know, I’m tired) (it’s a single muscle omg; if Sherlock had multiple sphincters in his anus he should probably go see a doctor) (Actually I heard there is the outer sphincter and the inner sphincter? That is what I was referring to, I don’t really know much about anal sex and butts. Google that shit before you have anal sex, kids).  
  
And then Jack was slowly pumping into Sherlock’s body and it was hot and tight, and they were still being pissed on by the pitiful stream of water, but it made a pleasant background noise, so they would have to listen to only the awkward slap of Jack’s ball sack as it hit Sherlock’s (but in a hot way).  
  
As Jack pumped away, he left one hand on Sherlock’s waist, while he slapped him repeatedly on the buttocks with the other, before leaning forward to give Sherlock an intense reach-around. It was in this position that they both came - Jack into Sherlock’s body, and Sherlock onto the floor (narrowly missing the TARDIS) and Jack’s hand.  
  
They did that post-coital wind down thing where they catch their breath and clean themselves up, Sherlock awkwardly washing between his legs as Jack’s seed seeped out of his butt (...but in a hot way?).  
  
Once clean, Sherlock leaned against the shower wall, panting slightly as he looked at Jack. He smiled as Jack did and they both laughed at their situation - still stuck in the shower.  
  
“We’ll have to be careful,” Jack said, turning off the water, “That we don’t catch a cold from being too wet.”  
  
“I think we’ll find a way to warm ourselves up.” said Sherlock with a wry smile (he means that they were going to fuck to keep warm).  
  
“And after we’re done ‘keeping warm’, we can always cuddle up under my coat.”  
  
“Sounds sufficiently pleasant.”  
  
And so they did just that, all evening, until the Doctor and Rose returned just after midnight. Jack pulled his clothes on and swept off into the TARDIS behind a stumbling, possibly high Rose, leaving Sherlock with nothing but a swift kiss and a wink to remember him by. The Doctor rolled his eyes and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.  
  
“I should have noticed he wasn’t with us.” He said, as though completely forgetting a person was entirely normal.  
  
“It’s really fine.” Said Sherlock.  
  
“Well. I’d love to stay and chat, but I can’t and I’m not going to. Until next time, old friend.  
  
“So there is a next time?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Oh yes.” Said the Doctor with a grin.  
  
Stepping into the TARDIS, and shutting the door with an air of finality, he fucked off in his big blue box, leaving Sherlock standing naked in his flat, free to go and do whatever he damn well liked - which is exactly what he did (it involved snorting some lines and making shit blow up, just FYI).

 

  
It was a long-ass time before he saw the Doctor again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated. :]
> 
> Info for requests/prompts can be found in the notes at the top.


End file.
